


Ajar Practice Rooms

by Sipsthytea



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on a Billie Eilish Song, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Going to Hell, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Inspired by Music, Jaskier is baby, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, This Is Sad, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, but It’s ok, i cried, it has a hopeful endjng, like it hurt to write, so you already know it’s sad, this shit hurted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26022499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sipsthytea/pseuds/Sipsthytea
Summary: It was an accident really.Walking past that slightly ajar practice room, listening to the strum of an acoustic guitar, and the voice of someone so broken so sad.It was an accident.So why does it keep happening??
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 123





	Ajar Practice Rooms

**Author's Note:**

> T/W: THIS FIC CONTAINS MENTIONS OF SUICIDE, PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED.   
> And if you are thinking of taking your life please know: I want you to live, I want you to stay.

It was an accident really. 

If it hadn’t been for Geralt’s art teacher moving their scheduled meeting halfway across the school. Past the gym and in the B building, it was a layout Geralt wasn’t familiar with, one he doesn’t think he ever  _ will  _ be. 

This was the performing arts section of the school, not the Arts. In this wing of the school, surrounded in bright posters telling of the upcoming open mic glittered even in the dim lighting. The sun cresting the horizon outside, peeking through the few windows that lined the corridors. 

Glancing down at the paper in his hands he sighed out. 

“Shit,” he muttered aloud. He’d taken a wrong turn, slipping into the band corridor, when his teacher was supposed to be by the orchestra’s corridor. 

With a roll of his eyes, he spun on his heel, hauling his backpack closer to his back. Pocketing the sticky note, he began to walk back down the hall. Passing by the slightly ajar doors of empty practice rooms. Peeking his head around, wondering what kind of people went in there. What instrument did they play? What was their favorite piece? Were they doing this for themselves or because of outside pressure? When did-?

_ “Take me to the rooftop, I want to see the world when I stop breathing, turning blue…” _

A voice arose from one of the practice rooms. Soft and melodic, soothing across the silence of the empty corridor, followed by strums of a guitar. Sunlight danced on the floor of the room, highlighting the shadow of the stranger. It made Geralt hold his breath and lean against the wall.

The door was cracked open, wide enough for a large ray of light to spill onto the floor, but not enough for a person to enter through. 

_ “Tell me love is endless, don’t be so pretentious, leave me...like you do…” _

It was the room Geralt had just passed, the voice nipping at his heels, pressing him against the wall. Careful not to let his shadow appear on, pressing a cheek to the metal frame of the door. Doing his best to glance in inconspicuously. 

_ “If you need me, wanna see me, you better hurry, ‘cause I’m leaving [soon](https://youtu.be/P4z1O3miesI)…” _

The person sang, the voice was sweet, but it was so sad. Somber tinting of a relatively chipper voice. Their tone were as blue - no, not quite blue, but dark. Like a shaded ray of sun, one darkened and hurt. 

It made Geralt’s fingers twitch, aching to reach for his sketchbook, but he clasped around his jeans, holding in the urge. 

_ “Sorry can't save me now. Sorry, I don't know how. Sorry, there's no way out, but down...Hmm, down…” _

Quietly sliding to the bottom of the wall, Geralt sat. A leg propped up with his forearm resting against it. Drawing phantom lines across his thigh. Picturing the voice behind the song, the person behind the voice, the story behind the hurt. 

There were a million things that Geralt wanted to know, but all he had was this song. All he had was a few lyrics and a shadowy figure. 

And for once in his life, it was enough.

_ “Taste me, these salty tears on my cheeks. That's what a year-long headache does to you...” _

Geralt almost wanted to scoff. The sound of a year-long headache wasn’t something foreign to him. Being so heavy, so tired, that the pounding in your head never does go away. Plus, he lives and deals with Eskel and Lambert on a daily basis.

_ “I'm not okay, I feel so scattered. Don't say I'm all that matters. Leave me, déjà vu…” _

That caught his attention, snapping his head towards the door. Concern filling his being, draining through his fingers and making his foot twitch. He wanted to ask, the questions rested on in his throat, but he couldn’t find it in him to speak. 

_ “If you need me, wanna see me, you better hurry, I'm leaving soon…” _

Geralt sat silently, or about as silently as he could be. His heart racing in his chest. This person, this stranger, had a beautiful voice. Gorgeous tone, perfect phrasing, but the beauty was overshadowed by the raw emotion in his voice. Drowned out by the sadness, the intimacy that made Geralt feel like an intruder. Like he was listening in on a private moment, a moment that isn’t meant to be shared. 

_ “ ‘Sorry’ can't save me now. Sorry, I don't know how. Sorry, there's no way out, but down. Hmm, down…” _

The voice began to waver, words bobbing with emotion, growing thick. However, despite that, the voice remained steady, focused. It made Geralt’s head spin. This person was hurting so badly and no - one had noticed. He sounded as if he was dying. As if the world was caving in on him and his only way out was - was by offing himself. 

_ “Call my friends and tell them that I love them and I'll miss them, but I'm not sorry. Call my friends and tell them that I love them, and I'll miss them...Sorry…” _

He finished with a choked off sob, a ragged sound followed by heavy breathing and the clatter of what Geralt can assume to be his guitar. Slight wheezing as they tried to gulp down the air through cries, cries of anguish. 

The meeting be damned, Geralt couldn’t leave him here.

He made a move to slide up the wall, knocking his backpack against the fire-alarm. The collision wasn’t enough to set it off, but enough to knock away the box of charcoal and color pencils from Geralt’s side pocket. The colors scattered across the floor, slashing through the new-found silence. 

He flinched at the crackling sound they made, colors spilling into the pool of warm light. It seemed to alert the person in the room of a presence. A loud scraping was heard followed by a jerky movement in their shadow, “Who’s there!?”

“ **Fuck** ,” Geralt seethed, closing his eyes, willing for the stranger to just go back to singing. 

“I know you’re there! Don’t come any closer!” They warned, voice still a bit shaky and heavy, the smallest sniff of their nose. 

Geralt gave them no answer, resting on the balls of his feet, back pressed firmly against the wall of the corridor, hands held high. 

_ “Answer me!” _

“Ok,” He said, casting his hand into the view of the doorway, “You see, that’s me. Ok?  _ Look _ , I’m sorry.”

“Why are you here?” The stranger questioned, some shuffling followed his words.

Geralt let out a soft chuckle, rocking back on his heels, feeling the sticky note shift in his jeans, “I got lost.”

They let out a dry laugh, one thick with tears, “ _ Ha! Lost? _ You expect me to believe that? My parents sent you, didn't they.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows, snapping his head towards the door, “Wh-What?  _ No _ .”

“I  **knew** it,” they continued, heaving as sobs filled the air once more, “I - I fucking knew it.”

Geralt let out a slow breath, sliding a hand through his hair, pushing it from his eyes, “Look, I don’t know who you are. I swear I got lost, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

His apology was sincere, but he had no intention of leaving, not without knowing the reason why this voice, this stranger, was in tears, in taters. 

“Y-You heard me  _ sing _ ?” They gasped, voice dropping into colors of fear. A fear that made something in Geralt’s stomach lurch. 

“Yeah,” He sighed, “Look, I didn’t mean to - I’m sorry.”

The voice was quiet, soft sniffles the only sound that resonated through the halls. 

It was a silence that weighed on Geralt’s shoulders. The questions built in his throat pressing warningly against his tongue, they wanted to slip, they wanted to know. 

And one did.

“That song,” he began, voice steady, echoing slightly, “It’s a suicide note, isn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question. It was the truth, carving through the raw emotion that lingered heavily in the air. He clenched his eyes again, leaning his head back against the wall with a thud, ‘ _ Fucking idiot, _ ‘ he thought.

To his surprise, the voice answered, “What’s it to you?”

His words were small. As if irking Geralt to explain something he already knew. 

“Well,” Geralt said, adjusting his legs, “It matters because you shouldn’t do it.”

“I shouldn’t?  _ Ha _ !” The voice proclaimed, “No one would even notice. I’d disappear into thin air.”

“You wouldn’t,” Geralt deadpanned, thinking back to thoughts he had. Thoughts that pounded against his mind, growing painful as he clenched his trembling fingers around a paintbrush. Those were dark times, and while they weren’t over, they weren’t as loud. 

_ “I-I’m sorry?” _

“You wouldn’t disappear into thin air. And I would notice, I would  _ know _ ,” He continued, lulling his head to rest on his shoulder. The skin of his cheeks pressing against the leather on his shoulders. 

The voice went silent again as if they were contemplating what Geralt said. 

“Why do you care?” they finally asked. It wasn’t condescending, it wasn’t sarcastic. No, this question was a plea for help. It was a cry to live. 

“Because you shouldn’t die,” He tired, gulping down the layers of emotion that dared to tremble behind the surface, “Because you should live.”

“Because  _ I _ want you to live...I  _ need  _ you to live.”

The silence grew heavy again. Growing over the ever dimming light outside, pooling over the spilled colored pencils that were still scattered. But the air wasn’t dense, it wasn’t suffocating. The colors around him were still blue, they were still faded, but the lighter tones and shades began to peek through.

“You-” The voice was cut off by a loud sob, “Y-You want me to  _ l-live _ ?”

“Yes, I  **do** ,” He answered immediately.

The silence was shattered, filled to the brim with gasping breaths and relieved sighs. Choked off sobs, questions of ‘you do?’ and quick answers of ‘yes, I do.’ Time passed slowly, echoing in the dim hallway of the Performing Arts Wing. 

“I-I don’t want you to see me,” They said after some time, the sounds of ruffling running alongside their words. 

“I won’t,” Geralt smiled, leaning his head back once more, “I’ll cover my eyes.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

The voice shuffled, their shadow murky and black, and became bigger, drowning out the hallway in darkness.

Geralt let his eyes fall shut, resting his forearm over it, he sighed. It wasn’t an impatient one, or even an annoyed one, it just felt right.

“You’re not looking?”

“No, I’m not.”

Footsteps tapped against the floor, the sounds of a case being held filled his ears. Gliding the floor at his feet, looming over him. 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They continued walking, echoes of their shoes following behind, before they came to a halt, “Thank you for telling me to stay.”

__________

Geralt went back. 

He went back to the Performing Arts Wing, took the wrong turn down the Band hallways, and trailed across the practice rooms. The posters a little peeled at their edges, worn, just a bit. He leaned over, smoothing them back down against the wall. 

‘He might not even be here, you know,’ A voice prompted, sharp and shrill in Geralt’s mind. Poking fun at his need to see - or rather hear this stranger again. Why? Geralt didn’t know yet. 

Half of him wanted to chalk it up to him being a concerned stranger, wanting to make sure the singer, whoever they are, is still breathing. But the small, selfish part of Geralt’s mind wondered if this singer was there for a reason. If this singer would be as beautiful as their voice. 

Carefully sliding down the wall, pulling his backpack to his chest. Quietly sliding his art equipment from the bag, his sketchbook, his charcoal pencils. He would forgo the colorings, at least until he could learn more about this singer. 

Silence radiated throughout the hallway, bouncing across the walls. The sun dampening the darkness, floating against Geralt’s knee, brushing against him, like fingers ghosting along his legs. 

Anxiety began to pour through him, thrumming quietly behind his fingertips, pushing against his chest. What if they really were gone? What if they hadn’t listened to Geralt yesterday? What if that song was the last thing that he whispered into the world? What if Geralt let him walk away when he could have saved him? What if there -?

_ “When will I feel this, as vivid as it truly is…” _

And there he was, the stranger singer. The mystery man that was nothing more to Geralt than a voice, a guitar, and a shadow. One that loomed across the floor, sliding into the fingers across Geralt’s leg. But Geralt couldn’t help but sigh in relief, blowing out quietly, letting a hand fall against his chest. He was alive. He lived. 

_ “Fall in love in a single [touch](https://youtu.be/ZtgxwkIhH5M) and fall apart when it hurts too much...?” _

The voice was still sad, still full of raw emotion and it still felt exceedingly intimate. But there was no looming sense of - of...gone.

There was no dark shadow looming in the stranger’s voice. Yes, it was sad, yes it did still sound broken, but it no longer sounded like defeat. It no longer went brittle with so much brokenness that the glamors of bright timber couldn’t shine through. 

_ “Can we skip past near-death clichés where my heart restarts as my life replays? All I want is to flip a switch before something breaks that cannot be fixed…” _

Their guitar was quiet, second to their voice, almost as if it was nothing more than a formality. But this voice, this stranger, didn’t need such trivial things. Their voice held emotion, it held the quality to sing on its own. By itself. 

_ “I know, I know the sirens sound, just before the walls come down. Pain is a well-intentioned weatherman, predicting God as best he can, but God I want to feel again...”  _

To feel? From what Geralt could hear, this voice felt plenty, they knew plenty, but perhaps they wanted to feel the light, the warmth. They wanted to feel the sun graze upon them, they wanted to splash over their colors of not-quite-blue to colors of yellow, of white, of brightness. Geralt turned to his paper. Drawing the first line, letting his head lull back against the wall. He wouldn’t look, he would let the voice carry his hand. 

_ “Rain or shine, I don't feel a thing, just some information upon my skin. I miss the subtle aches when the weather changed. The barometric pressure we always blamed...All I want is to flip a switch before something breaks that cannot be fixed…” _

Geralt had no direct visuals, he had no colors. He had only the sounds of a guitar, a voice, a shadow. He only had the lyrics. Lyrics that told stories of someone reaching out, someone wanting more, of someone wanting to feel. They wanted to feel again. An idea pulled at Geralt’s fingertips, drawing the lead across the sheet of paper. 

_ “Invisible machinery, these moving parts inside of me. Well, they've been shutting down for quite some time, leaving only rust behind...Well, I know, I know the sirens sound, just before the walls come down. Pain is a well-intentioned weatherman, predicting God as best he can. But God I want to feel again...Oh, God, I want to feel again…” _

The voice began to waver, words growing thick. Some shaky breaths followed their words, silence draping across the hallway. Their shadow shifted just a bit. And just as Geralt began to rise, gathering his things, he heard the voice whisper, almost like a confession:

_ “Down my arms, a thousand satellites suddenly discover signs of life…” _

Geralt can only smile, dragging his fingers across the paper, shading the darker colors. Re-tracing over the rough lines, adding smaller details. His smile never wavered, how could it, the stranger decided to stay. He decided to live. 

“That was beautiful,” He tried, waving his hand into the door. Watching as he cast a shadow across his legs and sighing when the stranger let out a loud gasp. 

“What are you doing here?!” He screeched, shadow jerking, the loud clatter following his movements. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt replied, dragging a hand through his hair, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”   
  


“So what is it this time? Did you get lost again?” They uttered. Their shadow draining of tension, the straight line of their spine easing into a small curve. 

“It is you right…?” He questions, voice small, worried, “They g-guy from yesterday?”

“Yeah,” Geralt chuckles, propping his forearm on his knee, “I’m the guy from yesterday. It’s you right? The singer from yesterday?”

His heart warms when he hears the smallest huff of amused air, “Yeah...I’m the - the singer from yesterday.”

Geralt just nods, running his fingers across the paper between his thighs. Rolling his pencil across his knuckles, drumming it lightly against the floor. 

Silence begins to drift between them, nothing heavy or uncomfortable, but a silence that comes with not knowing what to say. Once again, those questions press against Geralt’s throat, thrumming against his chest, threatening to break free. 

“So you lived?” He asks, turning his cheek to lean against the metal door frame, catching the smallest glimpse of shoes. They’re regular sneakers, but they have hand-written words across the midsole. Dark, chunky writing spelling out small words, tiny drawing of stars and flowers running along the seams. 

“Yeah,” They finally answer, “ I did.”

Geralt smiles, “I’m glad you did.”

A small chuckle comes from inside the room, the heads of chuck taylors coming into view, but Geralt doesn’t look up. He doesn’t look for the person attached to the shoes because it doesn’t matter, it won’t change a thing if he looks. 

“You’re not going to look?”

“No, not until you want me to,” He whispers, eyes trailing across the black double stitch, the heavy layers of leather, and the chunky permanent marker art. 

The shoes don’t move, the stranger doesn’t move, he only whispers, “You draw?”

Geralt looks down between his thighs, the paper lying patently. Charcoal pencil rolled a few inches away from his open hand, “Yeah, I do. I’m actually a part of the Arts program here.”

“It’s beautiful,” the stranger says, a small twinge of surprise in their voice. 

“What?”

“N-Nothing,” they utter, but there’s obviously something, something they won’t tell Geralt.

“Well,” He urges, gesturing a hand toward the drawing, “Spit it out.”

The singer chuckles softly, their shadow standing tall against Geralt’s leg, only a few rays of sunlight spilling onto the floor, “Why’d you draw it?”

“Because I heard you singing,” He answers, ghosting his finger along the outline of the silhouette he drew, a darkened finger reaching out to touch a bright bird. The bird sat patiently on a pedestal, it’s brilliant colors flourished and sunny, “You were saying you wanted to feel, but I think you felt plenty. You’re just scared of letting it come through you. I think you feel too much of the bad colors and not enough bright colors.”

“Bright colors?”

“Yeah,” he begins, resisting the twitch in his neck that almost makes him face the stranger, “You feel bright, like spring. That’s happiness, or joyous or adventurous.”

Geralt hears some rustling, the shifting of clothes and the silent thud of a case, the stranger is sitting. 

“What do you feel?”

With a soft chuckle, Geralt looks to the floor, scanning his eyes over the variety of colored pencils he’s spilled out, “I feel...blue and red and purple, I feel aqua and cornflower blue, magenta, I feel plenty, but I also feel gray.”

“Gray?”

“Yeah,” he utters, but he’s forgotten that he’s speaking to someone who doesn’t understand the colors as well as he does. He forgets that he isn’t speaking to someone who brings drawings to life, “The mixture of darkness and light, happiness and depression.”

“I feel gray sometimes too,” The stranger admits, a hand comes into Geralt’s view. It’s the voice. HIs hands are strong, some calluses along his fingertips, rings adorning the fingers. Shining even in the dim lighting of the hallway. It makes something in Geralt jump, something leap. 

He wants to draw these hands. 

“I feel grey a lot, but sometimes I feel black,” He whispers, drawing phantom circles across the sketch, “I used to be yellow all the time, but I suppose times change.”

“Why’d they change for you?” Geralt manages, biting back the sudden lurch of his heart. 

The stranger with the hand full of rings sighs, “My family wanted me to be someone I’m not. They wanted me to be like them, but I’m not…”

“Well,” Geralt gulps, “You don’t have to be,” His voice sounds forgin to his own ears. This feels strange, he’s never been much of a talker, let along an advice giver. 

A dry laugh is heard, echoing slightly in the vacant hallway, “Yeah, I guess you’re right...what’s your name?”

“My name is Geralt,” He sticks his hand out, wincing as it passes his line of sight and he catches a glimpse at the various paint stains on his palm. The stranger takes his hand with a firm shake. 

“Well,” The stranger says, “It’s nice to meet you Geralt. My name is J...Jaskier. Yeah, my name is Jaskier.”

Geralt knows that’s not his name, he knows that’s not the real name his parents gave him, but it fits. It suits the stranger in the abandoned practice room, the stranger with a knack for rings. 

“It’s nice to meet you too, Jaskier.”

__________

The next time Geralt went to that hallway, he learned about Jaskier.

He learned that Jaskier was afraid of many things.

“I’ve just been hurt a lot, I guess,” the singer uttered, legs dangling just out of Geralt’s sight, “I’m scared of love.”

Geralt doesn’t answer, onl offering him a small nod, not that he could see.

“I guess I am too.”

__________

It became an everyday thing. 

Geralt would take the wrong turn down the Band hallway instead of the orchestra hallway, he’d let his hands graze along the walls until it reached a peeling poster. He’d fix it and make his way to that slightly ajar classroom with Jaskier. The ring obsessed, chuck taylor wearing singer, would always be there. Always. His shadow would always pool against the sunlight. 

Always. 

Everyday, Geralt would slide down the wall and pull his sketchbook. It had begun to bulge a bit, growing heavier, but Geralt would always draw if Jaskier would always sing. 

And these feelings, feelings of yellow and pink, grew darker, more prominent. He was falling in love with a shadow on the floor, rings on a hand, drawings on shoes, a voice from a practice room. 

Yennefer thought he was an idiot, giving him raised eyebrows from across the room of their Psyche class. Lambert and Eskel thoroughly made fun of him, but it didn’t matter. It all felt so heavy against his ribs, it felt too quick. 

But he didn’t know what else to do. 

He didn’t know how to un-love Jaskier. 

He didn’t know how and it felt horrible. Loving someone felt horrible. 

The thoughts raced in his mind, pressing against his throat. He needed more than a shadow, he needed to  _ see _ . There’s so much he wants but he doesn’t know how to ask. Art has always been his translator, but it seems just as lost as he does. 

“Geralt?” Jaskeir prompts, voice concerned and light, “You there?”

Geralt wants to face palm, Jaskier sings and Geralt misses it. He missed the intimita story telling, like a dumbass. 

“Fuck.”

Quickly he shuffles his things together, doing his best before Jaskier approaches the door frame.

“So, no drawing today?”

“Fuck,” He utters again, going lax against the wall. Dropping his head to his chest with a loud sigh, “I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

There’s a bright chuckle, Jaskier dropping into a squat beside him, still out of his vision, letting a comforting hand rest against Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Was my singing that bad?” He jokes, but that is the farthest thing from the truth.

“No! No, I - I just don’t feel,” He cuts himself off, he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to say it.

But he doesn’t have to.

“Grey?”

“Yeah,” He scoffs, angry that Jaskier can read him so well. Anxious at the fact that Jaskier can read him so well. 

Jaskier lets out a hum, his hand tightening a bit, “I know what will cheer you up…”

The sounds of his footsteps retreating cause Geralt’s neck to twitch, curiosity building within his body, but he manages to keep from looking. But soon enough, there’s a rustling, and a thud of a guitar case. 

“You’re going to play something for me?”

“Not just something,” Jaskier gasps, giving his guitar a quick strum, “A special something.”

Silence falls on them briefly, Jaskier breathing in deeply.

_ “You with the sad eyes, don’t be discouraged. Oh, I realize it’s hard to take courage in a world full of people, you can lose sight of it all. The darkness inside you can make you feel so small…” _

The words built behind Geralt’s body, pressing against his resistance. They shattered the walls and came pouring out, “I love you, Jaskier.”

Those words are light weight being shattered upon Geralt’s shoulders, shoved away. He feels lighter, he feels better. He can see a color, it’s yellow, and it’s blazing, it’s bright. 

But it turns grey.

Then black.

Geralt flinches when he hears Jaskier suck in a sharp breath, it’s ear shattering. The body beside him suddenly went cold, going ridgid. 

“Jask-”

“Stop,” He gasps, feet shuffling away, rising off the floor, colliding with the wooden frame behind them, “Stop!”

Geralt feels as if his world is breaking, he feels as if his hands, his words have gripped him at the throat and are shoving the bitter taste of rejection down his body. 

“J-Jaskier...please…” He tries, rising as well, neck twitching as he turns. Eyes glazing over the shoes with chunky permanent marker, up to cuffed blue jeans, up to the ringed fingers, up to the stripped shirt he wears beneath his denim jacket, up to-

“DON’T LOOK AT ME!” Jaskier screeches, the unruly sounds of him staggering backward, his sneakers striking against the ground. The clatter of his guitar case, “Please,” he cries, voice thick and emotional, “Please, don’t look at me, Geralt.”

And so he doesn’t.

Geralt’s eyes stayed fixated on the medallion that swayed on his neck. They way it’s been hand-crafted, a gift from Geralt. The emblem of a wolf, snarling into the darkness, “Protection,” He said, “Protection.”

But now it just serves to taunt him, reminding him of the line he will never cross. The scuffed threads of Jaskier’s jean jacket. 

He watches as Jaskier runs away. Sobbing and gripping his case tight, shoes rattling the world that threatened to cave in beneathe Geralt. 

The world is grey, but he doesn’t want it to be. 

The practice room that’s always slightly ajar, the wrong turn down the band hall in the Performing Arts wing, in front of the poster whose left corner is always peeling, is so cold. 

So grey. 

__________

Geralt still goes back. 

Still traces his fingers along the brightly papered walls, straightening out the kinks in the posters. The floor below him is scuffed, used from a long day of school, but the practice room is closed. It’s always closed. There’s no pooling of rich sun to light the dark hallway, there is no strum of a guitar and the singing of-

It doesn’t matter.

He sighs, his shoulders slumping. This is unlike him, he’s never been hung up on someone, let alone someone who left  _ him _ . But he finds himself there again. 

Adjusting the leather jacket on his shoulders and the backpack slinged around his arm, and walked down the dimmed hallway. Ghosting his fingers over the bright walls, feet coming to a halt when he finds an empty space. 

That open-mic poster is gone. 

He huffs out a bitter laugh. They’d left it up for months after it had passed, why take it down now? 

But he fakes it, straightening down air, pulling his fingertips across the ghosted tacks and breathing out heavily. Everything is still so black, so dark. The light blue seedlings of Jaskier have begun to fade away. There seems to be nothing left. 

And when he approaches the music room, he finds the door shut, the way it always is. 

The dried out pool of sunlight leaves only dust, specks of a day Geralt wishes to forget. A day he wishes to shove away, but he can’t.

He can’t because he can still feel the ear shattering clatter of Jaskier leaving him, rejecting him. The door seems to be looming, metal handle gleamin even in the dim hallway. 

“Fuck,” he utters, something buildign in his thrat.

“Just once,” Geralt pulls the door open. Revealing the marveling gaze of the sunlight, dancing warmly across hsi skin. Embellishing him in old memories, in old feelings. There’s an Upright piano in the corner and a few chairs, along with a few music stands. The walls are insulated and prove for the best acoustics. 

It’s empty.

There’s nothing in here except air.

Space.

“Dammit, Jaskier,” He rasps, swiping a palm harshly at his eyes, to stop whatever tear threatens to fall.

He won’t cry, he refuses to.

Why would he cry over spilled milk? A love that was never really love? Someone who he’s never seen? Someone who didn’t love him, why is he crying? How could-?

_ “It's not true, tell me I've been lied to, crying isn't like you…” _

Geralt goes rigid, body freezing at the sound of that acoustic guitar, at the sight of those sneakers with chunky permanent marker. The breath from his body stops, exiting in a swift gasp. Because of that voice, that voice that’s so sweet and sad, so scared and tired, that voice makes him shake. It makes him collapse into the dinky chairs. It makes him listen.

_ “What the hell did I do? Never been the type to let someone see right through…” _

Geralt wants to laugh, he wants to laugh because of the irony. THe irony that floods through him. He can’t help but grip onto the bottom of the chair until the edges dig into his palms. But Jaskier’s right, he’s never been one to let anyone in. He’s never been the one to let someone see who he really is, which is why he sings. It’s his way of telling without telling, the way Geralt’s art is his talking without talking.

He understands.

_ “Maybe... won't you take it back, say you were tryna make me laugh and nothing has to change today. You didn't mean to say "I love you". I love you and I don't want to…” _

Oh, how he wishes that were true. He wishes that he were able to play the most important sentence in his life off as a joke. He wishes he would have laughed, couldn’ve doubled over while he held his stomach, waited for Jaskier to believe him then, cry. If he’d done that, they wouldn’t be in this situation.

Geralt wouldn’t be sitting in the practice room listening to Jaskier in the hallway

Maybe if he hadn’t said it, they wouldn’t be so far apart in this grey world.

_ “Up all night on another red eye, I wish we never learned to fly. Maybe we should just try to tell ourselves a good lie, I didn't mean to make you cry…” _

Geralt sighs out, Jaskier wants to forgive him. He wants to start over. The sounds of his vice lull Geralt into closing his eyes, slipping into the strum of his acoustic guitar, the grey world slipping away from him. They would lie, they would lie and act like it never happened. They would lie and Geralt would get Jaskier back. 

The would would be yellow again.

But jaskier’s voice waver, growing thick. HIs words come to an abrupt halt, hsi playing stunted. There is the screech of cords and the clatter of his guitar. But before Geralt can open his eyes or call out, he hears the door creak open. 

Slowly exposing the droughted hallway to the se of sunlight. 

There’s a warm presence that walks towards Geralt, hands shaking, but steady. Hands that have rings on them, too many. Hands that have calluses on their fingertips, hands that cradle his face gently. 

“ _We fall apart as it gets dark, I'm in your arms in Central Park. There's nothing you could do or say, I can't escape the way, I love you…”_

The hands have a voice. And this voice is sad, but it’s bright. It has a warm tiber hardened by years of being unloved, he has a heart that’s afraid. But he’s beautiful.

_ “I don't want to, but [I love you](https://youtu.be/WiinVuzh4DA).” _

The hand’s voice shakes. It shakes and sobs and falls forward. Into Geralt's chest with a cry, fingers clutching at Geralt’s leather jacket. 

“I-I love - love y-you…”

And Geralt’s world shudders to a halt. Slowly rotating around to face the sun again, to become yellow again. He wraps his arms around Jaskier, pulling him closer and burying his face into the crook of his neck. 

Sandalwood and mint.

Jaskier smells of sandalwood and mint. He’s shorter than Geralt, a trim waist and strong shoulders. His fingers dance along Geralt's collar, gently tugging at the dyed locks of hair. 

“I love you,” he repeats, “I love you.”

The warmth pulls away and stands in the light, guiding Geralt to look at him. 

“I love you,” he says, bright blue eyes shining with tears. Brown hair pushed back on his head, the sharp cheekbones damp with tears.

He can see.

Geralt can see.

“I love you too.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this!!  
> Don’t be shy, leave me a comment on your thoughts, corrections, or things you’d like to read in the future.  
> [psa: comments keep me motivated and help me know that my work is being read and seen, so, please:) no pressure 🥺💕]
> 
> REMEMBER: You are amazing and valid. You’re not alone. I want you to live, I want you to stay. So please, stay.


End file.
